Hardest of Hearts
by Blackcurrant Bonbons
Summary: This is the story of how John Watson cracked the nut that was Sherlock's heart. SLASH
1. That bloody racket!

_This is dedicated to all my lovely reviewers and a youtube genius MiszP2010. Watch here Sherlcok - BLAH BLAH BLAH. It's legendary. Hope you like my blabber!_

**'There is love in your body but you can't get it out**  
**It gets stuck in your head, won't come out of your mouth**  
**Sticks to your tongue and it shows on your face that**  
**The sweetest of words have the bitterest taste**

**Darling, how I loved you from the start, but you'll never know what a fool I've been**  
**Darling, how I loved you from the start, but that's no excuse for the state I'm in.'**

** Florence and the Machine.**

**The Hardest of Hearts**

John Watson lay in bed; eyes wide open, staring up at the inspiring white ceiling of his small bedroom. It was two o'clock in the morning. He had been in this state for the past two nights now. Sherlock screeching away on that bloody precious violin of his. Why the hell had he agreed to rent a flat with this sociopath? John visualized snatching the violin out of Sherlock's tapered hands and smashing it to pieces on the kitchen floor. What was there of it any way. The rest of it had been shattered by the microwave blowing up, another of Sherlock's experiments. He wasn't sure if he could take much more. He relished the image of the broken violin. He'd rather have the nightmares to this bloody cat cry. Should he consider getting his ear drums surgically removed?

"John?" Sherlock called innocently from the sitting room, like he could read his thoughts. At least the bloody racket had stopped.

"Yes, Sherlock?" He replied, purposely dripping his reply with fatigue.

"Am I keeping you awake again?"

"You noticed." John stated dryly.

Sherlock chuckled, paused for a moment, and carried on playing. Bastard. John sighed, rolled over onto his side, and pulled a pillow over his head. The sound was only slightly muffled. Damn. He closed his eyes and tried not to scream in frustration.


	2. Obvious Observations

"You hate early mornings." Sherlock stated simply, in his usual nonchalant manner.

"Now I wonder how you came to that conclusion?" John replied tetchily. He'd been kept awake all night by that cursed violin. Again. It seemed like it would never stop. Too late, he'd realised he had overfilled his cereal bowl, and it was now spilling all over the floor. Great. If he was going to try to even look remotely intelligent in front of this man, he was failing. He must appear a total imbecile to Sherlock, he couldn't get cereal into a bowl. Sherlock was watching him, bemused.

"Where's the Hoover?" John asked resignedly.

"Oh, that thing. Well, it's broken." Sherlock replied innocently, without looking up from his violin.

"Not another one of your bloody experiments again, is it?

Actually, it broke _because _of one of my experiments. I misplaced one of the fingers, I stepped on it , and it flew everywhere, including my good shoes, and my failed attempt to clean it up resulted in the broken Hoover. I know how much you dislike mess. I hide it in the airing cupboard." Sherlock looked at him, using his rare puppy eye look which finally cracked John.

"Fine, fine. But you can buy the new one."

Behind the cover of the fridge door, John smiled. That was very considerate of Sherlock. He wasn't usually, well, that human. Maybe he did respect John. But when he saw the human head in the fridge, his smile dropped.

"Sherlock! What the hell have you done now?"


	3. Burn Baby Burn!

_One small question before you carry on reading, please could you R&R at the end and tell me whether I should continue this story or not? Thank you!_

John stared mindlessly at the bubbling water boiling in the broken kettle. His eyes were glazed over with tiredness. Tonight he and Sherlock had been on a particularly trying case, sprinting across London, dashing through buildings, up stairs, even at one point climbing up a rope ladder. That had been amusing. They hadn't stopped. He glanced up at the lopsided clock dangling from the kitchen wall. It was 4 o'clock in the morning. What he needed now was coffee, and sleep. He poured the remains of his supposedly 'secret' stash of coffee into a chipped mug. Sherlock must have found it. Not that he was surprised, he should have none. He was drawn out of his reverie by the satisfying click of the kettle. Picking up the kettle, he shouted with surprise when he turned around and Sherlock was standing right behind him. His smiled quickly disappeared when the boiling water from the kettle sloshed all over the front of his shirt. John reacted quickly, his medical instincts kicked in; this would be a nasty burn.

"Ow." Sherlock stated clearly, acting coolly, but it was obvious he was in pain.

"Sherlock, we need to get that shirt off now. I need to treat your wound." John didn't even bother with buttons; he ripped off the shirt, tossing it aside. This would be awkward. "Go sit down, quickly." John commanded with as much authority as he could muster, he wasn't used to bossing Sherlock around. Surprisingly, Sherlock complied complacently. John ran a dish cloth under cold water, and pressed it over Sherlock's burn, which was a nasty scarlet shade of red. Sherlock had a nice chest. God, he was being a pervert. Stop thinking about that. "Go run the burn under a cold shower." Sherlock walked off without saying word. John resisted the temptation to follow him there.

John woke up with a shock. He had been leaning against the bathroom door whilst Sherlock was in the shower, waiting for him to finish. How long had he been dozing now? Too long. He'd better check if Sherlock was ready.

"Sherlock? Have you finished?" No reply. John had an overwhelming suspicion that something wasn't right. He knocked, repeatedly, harder. He didn't want to accidentally invade his privacy. He couldn't live through that if he did. "I'm going to come in now." He slowly opened to door, and peered around. He saw Sherlock curled up, sitting in the shower, unconscious. Shit. Hypothermia must have kicked in. God, this was his entire fault. He shouldn't have fallen asleep. Grabbing a towel, he switched off the freezing shower, and hauled Sherlock out, damn the fact that he was stark naked. He wrapped a dry towel around him and did his best to place him lying down on the sofa. Sherlock was confused, muttering to himself. John ran around the flat in a frenzy, collecting every possible blanket and hot water bottle available, even his duvet. Sherlock was still naked, except for the sparse towel covering the essentials. John wrapped him in a combination of blankets dispersed with hot water bottles, and then very gently, picked up the living teddy bear that was now Sherlock, and slid under him. It is essential to share body heat when someone is in hypothermic shock, he thought reassuringly to himself. Well this was going to be awkward. Then, Mrs. Hudson came through the door.

"Hello dearies," she said cheerfully, before spotting them. She seemed slightly perturbed, seeing John cuddling what appeared to be an enormous teddy bear on the sofa, but he managed to explain it all to her.

"Oh dear, John. Thank goodness you're a doctor then, isn't? Do you need anything?"

"You might have to change the water bottles for me please Mrs. Hudson." and for once she didn't complain. John's day was practically uneventful after that, Sherlock regained consciousness several times, still in a slightly disillusioned state, but he was warmer now. Mycroft visited, he had somehow managed to find out, although he had no idea how. John spent most of the time cuddling the teddy bear, as he now referred to Sherlock, which he hoped would stick as a nick name. He and Mycroft chatted pleasantly for a while, and then he left, leaving them alone again. At one point John actually fell asleep with Sherlock, and it was probably the best sleep he'd ever had, although he didn't admit it. He hoped Sherlock didn't remember that.

When Sherlock regained full conscious later that day, John had his arms wrapped around his entire torso, his legs curled around his. John was day dreaming, stroking Sherlock's blankets absentmindedly.

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock sounded amused, but also dazed and slightly startled.

Oh, Sherlock, you're awake." John quickly disentangled himself, although Sherlock was still on top of him. "Do you remember anything?"

"Vaguely," That was the only reply Sherlock gave. He attempted to sit up, and then fell back down again. John was nearly winded.

"I think you might need some help getting those blankets off, I need to examine your burn."

"Oh yes, that thing. You did put quite a lot on, didn't you?" Sherlock chuckled.

"You had hypothermia."

"I know that. Thank you for the offer, but I think I can manage fine by myself," and with that Sherlock was up, and he waddled of to his room, trying to hold all the blankets and maintain his dignity at the same time. It was the most hilarious sight that John had ever seen. He tried to suppress the laughter, fists in his mouth, tears rolling down his eyes, smothering his face in a cushion. When Sherlock closed his bedroom door, he burst out into fits of laughter, rolling on the floor. He should have taken a picture.

"John?" Sherlock called. "I'm ready!" John dragged himself up from the sofa and started walking towards Sherlock's bedroom. He was slightly apprehensive. He hadn't been in Sherlock's room before. He didn't know what to expect. Bomb site perhaps? Or maybe he kept a morgue in there. That would explain a lot of things. Slowly, he creaked open Sherlock's door. The room was surprisingly tidy. Sure, the wall was covered in seemingly random pieces of paper, there were several empty cups of coffee scattering the floor and the bed was unmade, but that was tidy, for Sherlock. John was freakishly neat. Sherlock was sitting on the end of the bed, no shirt on, the burn blistering and bright red, it looked nasty. John closed the door behind him. Sherlock looked up.

"That looks nasty," John commented lightly.

"I suppose it does, doesn't it?" Sherlock chuckled slightly, licking his lips, which of course John didn't see. John produced a roll of cling film and began to wrap it around Sherlock's wound. Well this was going to be extremely awkward. John felt nervous for some reason unbeknown to him. But you do know his subconscious jibed. Oh just sod off will you. Great. Now he was having an argument with his conscious. "I do not have any feelings for Sherlock Holmes!" he shouted, but before too late, he realised he'd said it out loud. Shit. How could he get himself out of this one? Sherlock was looking up at him, startled.

"John..?"

"I'm sorry Sherlock..." but before he could say another word, Sherlock had pulled him in and gave him a gentle kiss. Well that wasn't what he had expected.

"How long did you know?" He inquired gently.

"Since you poured the water over me,"

"Wow. That quickly." Sherlock nodded wordlessly and pulled him in for another kiss.


	4. The Wrong Side of Bed

_**Hello all! I hope you like this new chapter, please R&R! I'm having some problem with my writer's block at the moment, so if anyone has any ideas they want me to write about, please suggest! Enjoy!**_

Later that night, John lay awake in Sherlock's bed – a place he'd never dreamt he would be in – with the owner's arms and legs securely wrapped around him in a deadlock grip. It occurred to him that they had swapped places, John was meant to be Sherlock's teddy bear, not the other way around. God, he was already getting protective over him. After several attempts to wriggle his way out of Sherlock's arms, he resigned himself to contemplating his thoughts. After all, Sherlock did not appear to be waking up any time soon. He wasn't sure what to do. All his life he had naturally assumed he was hetero, the possibility of being gay had never occurred to him, crushed by society and modern culture. What would everyone say? Not that it mattered much to him what the public thought, just his family. Harry would never stop poking fun at him. And his dad. Best not think about him just yet. He would be furious. Sherlock did not appear to care for social prejudices, being a sociopath. Knowing Mycroft he probably already knew. He will find this all very amusing. Anderson and Sally would never let them hear the end of it. For both their sakes, he thought it would be best if they kept it low profile for a while, break it gently. His thoughts were ended then, due to stretching and yawning of his – he supposed it was boyfriend now – flatmate.

"Hello darling," Sherlock in a very cute, husky voice. Wow, could he turn John on.

"Hello Sherlock. Now if you wouldn't mind, please can you let me go?" John asked in his best serious voice, which wasn't very serious under these circumstances.

"Never!" Sherlock replied jokingly and his grip on John tightened. John sighed dramatically, and then, smiling gleefully, rolled over several times, and they plonked onto the floor. John grinned smugly. Sherlock had taken all the impact, and had been surprised enough to momentarily let go off John.

"I'll get you back John," Sherlock groaned painfully, winded on the floor.

John merely winked and left the room chuckling. God, he needed a shower.


	5. Sweet Dreams

_**Thank you again for all the lovely reviews, they really keep me writing! This is a short, fluffy style chapter which I shall dedicate to 'doctorcoffeegirl' for her lovely review, and also because she came up with the idea for this chapter! Thanks all! Please R&R!**_

_'I wish that when I wake up you're there  
So wrap your arms around me for real  
And tell me you'll stay by side' _

_Sweet Dreams, Beyonce._

John was alone in the flat that night, Sherlock had been out on one of his numerous mysterious cases and John had not seen him for days. It had been quiet, which was a change, but he had been bored stiff. He missed the thrill and excitement of being out on a case with Sherlock. Or even being with Sherlock. He smiled secretively to himself. He still found it hard to believe that Sherlock was his boyfriend, even though it had been almost 3 weeks now. The word caught on his tongue. He still hadn't gotten round to telling his family, but it was inevitable. And Mycroft hadn't visited either, which was unusual. He missed Sherlock badly. He didn't want to be alone. The flat was empty and miserable without his eccentric, sociopathic presence. John's eyes flicked over to the clock. He couldn't hold it off any longer. He had to go to bed. He gulped loudly, images and memories of his nightmares springing into his head.

John leant against the wall of his bedroom, staring nervously at the seemingly innocent bed which inspired such fear in him. It had been different with Sherlock, he was always there to comfort him, and then to cuddle him, but now John was alone. He had taken as long as possible; brushing his teeth for almost ten minutes, combing his already straight, short hair, even using deodorant. He just resisted the temptation to paint his nails, he was that desperate. He couldn't postpone any longer. Sighing deeply, he rubbed his eyes and trudged apprehensively towards the bed. Pulling back the duvets, he lay stiffly in the bed, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Slowly, as much as he tried to resist, his eyes started to drag and he fell into a painful, twisted sleep, his nightmares burning inside him.

The blood and gunshots appeared almost instantly after his eyes closed, and John relived painful memories of seeing his best friends blown to pieces, a small child shot to death in front of his very eyes, entire villages blown away, a young girl being raped, he even saw himself staring down at his own bullet wound in his shoulder, replaying again and again. He was screaming and shouting, yelling again and again Sherlock's name desperately, like a mantra, for what seemed like hours. All he wanted was for this to end. And then suddenly, it stopped. John felt a wave of peace flow through him, and he opened his eyes. When he saw Sherlock's face, he thought it was an angel sent by God. His pale, high cheek bones, silky black locks and melting green eyes looking down in concern at him seemed heavenly.

"John, John! Are you alright?" Sherlock's usual checked emotions had been set loose, worry and concern spilling over his words. John just gripped Sherlock's hand tightly.

"Thank you," was all John whispered in reply, but Sherlock understood. Their connection sparked.

"Do you want me to leave?" Sherlock spoke gently.

"No, no!" John cried in desperation, he needed Sherlock. "Please stay." he begged, looking up at Sherlock.

"Of course," and in a single flurry, Sherlock was in bed with John, arms wrapped tightly around him, stroking his hair and whispering comforting nothings into John's ear.

John snuggled into Sherlock, drifting off into a peaceful, undisturbed sleep, Sherlock curled up around him like a nest. John had found his home.


	6. John's Coming Out!

**Thank you for all my lovely reviewers and readers, thank you so much for everyone's support! If anyone has any personal requests for a chapter or any suggestions they are most welcome! Thank you so much for bothering to read this!**

_**'I'm coming out  
I want the world to know  
Got to let it show  
I'm coming out  
I want the world to know  
I got to let it show'**_

_**Diana Ross. I'm coming out.**_

**John comes out.**

John stared into the murky, lukewarm depths of his coffee, swirling in the chipped mug. His tanned hand lay restlessly on the battered, acid eroded kitchen table. His sister Harry – who he had not seen in over two years – had informed him about 10 minutes before she had arrived that she was coming to visit, and since then he had been in a frenzy, flurrying about the flat, trying to make it at least respectable. Of course, Sherlock had stayed in bed, lazy sod. And John hadn't managed to get any sleep at all last night, thanks to _someone _taking the entire duvet. When she had arrived, she just hugged him wordlessly, her eyes bloodshot, face red from crying. Oh god, John thought. Another bloody break up crisis. Normally he would be sympathetic, but he had seen so many with Harry now that it had become routine. Probably Clara this time. When would Harry ever learn? She had almost recovered back to her normal self now – which wasn't that normal – and had started to chat mindlessly about what ever first came into her head. He got bored after a while. He was so used to Sherlock's company, being with someone with mind blowing intelligence, he rarely spent time with any other person, so everyone else seemed dull and boring. That was worrying. He lost himself again in the depths of coffee. She had started off on a rather sensitive subject of his, his shoulder wound. He thought he was meant to be comforting her, not the other way around. Then another worrying thought popped into his head. How was he going to explain about him and Sherlock? God that would be difficult. They hadn't told anyone, no one in Scotland Yard, not his family, not even Mycroft. Though he probably already knew. Harry would never let him hear the end of it. And Sherlock would probably pop it into the conversation in his typical casual, innocent way. Just like he had read his mind, Sherlock sauntered into the room, in his pyjamas and blue silk dressing gown. Well at least he had worn clothes for once. Harry held out her hand and was about to introduce herself when he interjected, "Ah, you must be Harry, John's sister. I've heard so much about you!" Sherlock shook her hand, and then winked at John. Well at least he was being socially correct. Harry gave him a questioning look, John just shrugged.

"And you're Sherlock, John's flatmate, right?"

"I'm so sorry to hear about Clara. Messy break up. I hope you realise you were well over the alcohol limit whilst driving, but that's understandable." Okay, that wasn't so smooth.

"How the hell did you know about that?" Oh great, Harry's monster temper was flaring up. Everyone run for cover. But Sherlock carried on completely oblivious. John tried shooting him glares, but he wasn't looking. "Well I can smell the vodka from here, and you have a crumpled up picture of you and girl in your front jacket pocket, surrounded by used Kleenex tissues. Also the engraving on the back of your phone says 'love Clara'. Hardly a major leap. Didn't John tell you, I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world." Sherlock practically preened himself, chest bursting with pride. Harry's face looked up at him in awe. Oh God, this would bring her old CSI obsession back up again. She then proceeded to drag him over to the sofa, and began to question him relentlessly about all things criminal. He looked at John, his eyes pleading. John just smiled smugly, this was the perfect revenge. He wouldn't get out of there for a while.

John and Harry sat on the sofa later, Sherlock absently plucking away at his violin in the armchair opposite, staring into space. John had shown her the flat. She liked it, it was better than some places she'd lived in, she said cheerfully. John worried about her. Ever since Dad had died... she hadn't been the same, always too much alcohol, too many cigarettes.

"John?" Harry asked, looking up at him with those eyes she'd often used as a child to get what she wanted. John hated to admit it, but they still had an effect on him.

"Yes, Harry?" he sighed resignedly. The question was coming. She had asked it so many times.

"I know you're a bit crowded for space here, but because I was living with Clara, and we're sort of not together any more, I don't have anywhere to stay, so I was wondering if it was alright with you if I could just crash with you and Sherlock until I find somewhere to stay? I'll only be a few days, promise! I can sleep on the sofa." she looked up at him pleadingly. How could he refuse?

"That's fine Harry, sure. Sherlock, are you okay with this?" Sherlock nodded wordlessly, not even looking at him, eyes blanked out. He turned back to Harry. "It's alright Harry, you can have a bedroom."

"But where will you sleep? I only counted two bedrooms." she eyed him suspiciously over her cup of coffee. John's stomach twisted nervously. Here it came. "Umm, Sherlock and I share a bedroom now Harry," He had said this just when Harry had taken a large gulp of coffee, which was instantly spluttered over John's face. Well that had gone well. "What?" Harry yelled, and then started to laugh hysterically. Sherlock as usual being extremely helpful, still staring off into space.

"John Watson, my brother, gay?" Harry was wiping tears off her eyes, rolling on the floor. "Well I never!"

John just sat resignedly on the sofa, twiddling his thumbs. This would be a long few days.


	7. Caught in the Act

**Hey guys, sorry this took such a long time to update, I've been really busy at school! I love all the people who have reviewed so far, keep them coming! So basically there will just be a few more chapters of meeting the important people in John and Sherlock's lives, this is the second. By the way, if anyone is confused, Harry is still at the house! I forgot to mention that! And to state the bleeding obvious, Greg is Lestrade, just to avoid confusion! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock... yet. **

John twitched in the uncomfortable leather chair; watch the ever irritating Sherlock spinning round endlessly in the identical one opposite. He didn't know why he was on edge; this was just a regular visit to Lestrade's HQ, as he liked to call it. This had become like a second home to him since the few months he had been living with Sherlock. As they waited for Greg to return with the file Sherlock so desperately wanted, he considered his emotions. He hadn't told any of Lestrade's team about his new relationship with Sherlock, and as Sherlock hadn't made any moves to revealing it, he had stayed quite. He supposed that he was secretly worried about what their reactions would. He knew he shouldn't give a damn about what other people thought, but unlike Sherlock, he had been raised to follow certain social etiquettes. But they couldn't keep it a secret forever. What would they say? The lover of a sociopath genius? They probably think he'd cracked under the constant pressure of living with the unbearable Sherlock. Although that did have its advantages. Whoa, not now, not here, he thought. He was trying to keep his relationship with Sherlock as low level as possible. As far as he knew, Harry was the only one who knew. Probably Mycroft as well. He was startled out of his thoughts as felt the reassuring warmth of Sherlock's hand enclose his. Sherlock squeezed gently. They looked at each other wordlessly, and Sherlock gave one of rare genuine smiles, and John's stomach melted like warm butter. He smiled back, everything would be okay now. He looked down at their entwined hands, the contrast between alabaster white and tan. He smiled euphorically. But at the moment Greg entered the room, file in hand. John froze and Sherlock remained perfectly still. Greg looked at them. "Was it something I said..." but the sentence trailed off as he saw their entwined hands. The file dropped to the floor, papers scattering. Everyone in the room was frozen. Greg rubbed his eyes, in semi-shock. "John, why are you holding hands with Sherlock? Please say this is some sort of joke," Greg looked at him, but John's face remained serious. "You have to be kidding me, right?" He clutched the desk and sat down. "You're not seriously in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes, the sociopathic genius?" John sighed. So much for keeping this low profile. "Yes Greg, I am." Greg let out a strangled yelp, and then proceeded to go into a hysterical laughing fit, banging his fists against the desk, tears rolling down his cheeks. "Well I never," he managed between gulps, "Sherlock has a boyfriend!" Then to make things even better, Sally and Anderson walked into the room, drawn by Greg's laughter. Oh god, John thought. They then caught sight of Sherlock and John's still entwined hands, and both looked shocked. Sally immediately asked, "John, are you alright? What did he do to you? What drugs has he got you on?" Sherlock looked slightly hurt, but John just tiredly answered, "No, Sally, its fine. It's all fine. We're in a relationship." Sally looked like someone had slapped her in the face. Anderson took the more sarcastic approach. "Well, , congratulations." Sherlock just retorted "Oh shut up Anderson, you homophobic imbecile." Greg stepped in. "Okay boys, no wars please. Sherlock's relationship doesn't affect any of us, so we'll leave it at that." Sally snorted. Greg looked at Sherlock. "Sherlock, your file..." he gestured to the random papers scattered across the office.

"We'll come back for it later." Sherlock stood up abruptly, dragging John up with him. "C'mon on John." Anderson sneered. "I'll take it that he's the more dominant partner then John?" Greg sighed. "Leave it Anderson." Sherlock glared at Anderson's back as he left the room. John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was no better than a two year old sometimes. As they left the awkward situation in the office behind, John sighed in relief. That hadn't been so bad. Sure, it had been at a completely wrong moment and he hadn't had much of a choice, but better than he'd expected. He looked up at Sherlock lovingly. Sherlock smiled again. Wow he was smiling a lot today. That was weird for Sherlock. "You glad you got that off your chest Sherlock?" Sherlock grinned. "It was coming sometime." John leant against Sherlock's shoulder as they left the building, melting into him.

**So what did you think? Please review, I need them!**


	8. Dinner?

**Hello again! Sorry I took a long time to update, I'm very busy ATM! Sorry Harry had to go, there was no room in the 'plot' for her and it was easier to write for me! Don't burn me for it! Enjoy and please R&R! **

John, groaned, rolling over, and slowly placed his feet on the cold wooden floor, which contrasted greatly with the comfortable warmth of Sherlock's sleeping body. He resentfully hated the unknown person who had been ringing the doorbell for the last 5 minutes solid. This better be important, or he was going to be seriously pissed off. Sherlock still lay in bed, dozing, not even attempting to stand up, even though John knew he had also heard the whining doorbell. Pulling on Sherlock's dressing gown, he trudged down to the door, rubbing his eyes free of sleep. Yawning loudly, he peered round the door. Through the bleary haze of tiredness, he saw Mycroft patiently standing there, swinging his umbrella. He resisted the urge to swear loudly. Opening the door wider, he gestured Mycroft inside.

"What's wrong now Mycroft?" he disliked being rude to Sherlock's older brother, but there were limits to social etiquettes when it was 6 o'clock in the morning. Mycroft's face twisted into a Cheshire cat grin, which always succeeds in freaking John out.

"Oh no, nothing at all, I just wanted to pay you and my dear little brother a visit. I also believe your sister is staying as well?" Mycroft chuckled. John cringed inwardly. He sincerely hoped Sherlock hadn't the 'little' word Mycroft had used. Sherlock hated being belittled by anyone, especially Mycroft.

"No, Harry left yesterday. Would you like a cup of tea, Mycroft?"

"No thank you, John, I'm quite alright." John thought he would never get used to a polite Holmes. Sherlock certainly wasn't.

He gestured to the sofa. "Please, sit down." Mycroft obliged. John hollered to Sherlock, "Sherlock, get up, Mycroft's here,"

"Well tell him to piss off then! It's six o'clock in the bloody morning!" John groaned inwardly. Why was Sherlock always like this? Mycroft merely laughed. "Always so polite," he chuckled.

"I'm sorry Mycroft, he's always like this in the mornings," John sat in his usual armchair, propping his head against the union jack cushion.

"I'm terribly sorry I've come at a rather... inconvenient time John,"

"It's fine. I never get much sleep when Sherlock's around anyway."

"I gathered." Mycroft had his Cheshire cat smile on again. He looked pointedly at Sherlock's silk dressing gown, which John was wearing. The two exchanged a wordless glance. Mycroft knew. Oh, God, John thought, he might as well shout it out to the whole of London for all the secret was worth. Thankfully, at that moment, Sherlock stalked out of the bedroom in John's flannel pyjama bottoms, which were two inches to short. The expression on his face showed he was clearly displeased with his brother's disturbance.

"Hello brother. How's the diet? John, please lock cupboards. We don't have enough food as it is." Sherlock spat out the words directed at Mycroft.

"Good morning Sherlock," Mycroft grinned at him. John shut off his brain. Here comes another bloody row.

"I've come to ask you and John if you would do me he pleasure of attending dinner at my house on Monday 18th." He looked at Sherlock. "Mummy will be there." John was slightly startled. Dinner with the Holmes family? And he would finally meet the infamous mother of the Holmes brothers. A formidable woman, he was sure. The expression on Sherlock's face was a comical sight. "Dinner with you?" he cringed. Mycroft nodded. "Yes, Sherlock, dinner with me and Mummy. My house. Will you come or not?"

Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft grinned triumphantly. "Only because Mummy's there," Sherlock retorted.

"Excellent. Mummy will finally get to meet John. Good day chaps," And with that Mycroft was gone.

"Dinner?" John asked.

"Yes, John, dinner with my family. It shouldn't be that bad."

John sighed. Dinner with the Holmes family. That would be interesting.

**Hope you enjoyed, and yes, the next chapter will be the dinner! **


	9. Entering Mycroft's Lair

**Hi guys sorry I took so long to update this! Hope you enjoy! XD**

* * *

John fiddled nervously with his unfamiliar shirt cufflink, eyes darting nervously around from Sherlock to the passing scenery outside of the cab. His tie felt tight against his throat, it felt uncomfortably like a noose. Sherlock of course was the complete picture of serenity and calmness, but John knew better. Sherlock had not moved or said a word since they had entered the taxi, and he had a military stillness which would have rivalled John's. Sherlock was nervous, but he would never admit it. John sighed, and leaned back into his seat. His suit felt like a straight jacket. He coughed nervously.

"Everything will be fine, Sherlock," he made a desperate attempt to comfort Sherlock. Sherlock gave him one look which said it all. No it won't.

"What could possibly go wrong?" John was getting desperate now. Sherlock gave John another look, and John gulped. Great. If Sherlock had no hope, he was screwed.

"It's only Mycroft and your mum, right?" Sherlock nodded slightly.

"Okay I can cope with that. What's your mother like?"

"Imagine me and Mycroft combined together, and turned into a woman."

"Oh my god." John gulped again. Damn. She must be a very formidable woman then. He felt sick.

"Are you going to tell me exactly where the hell Mycroft lives?"

"Yes, we're going to one of is mansions' just outside Kensington Gardens,"

It didn't surprise John that Mycroft had more than one mansion. Of course he had more than one mansion. As the light began to fade, the taxi pulled up beside a huge, iron wrought pair of gates, a long, winding drive way visible behind them.

"We've arrived," was all Sherlock said, and promptly got out of the taxi, John following. As they approached the gates, Sherlock clasped onto John's hand. John looked up at the taller man, giving him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Sherlock smiled back. John melted as he always did. When they came to face the gates, they merely slid back, welcoming them into Mycroft's lair. How had they seen them coming? CCTV, of course, John was so stupid. Of course Mycroft had CCTV. They picked up their pace, well, Sherlock began to walk faster and John was practically dragged along, so they reached their destination in less than 5 minutes. John swore the world slowed down as Sherlock's tapered finger reached out towards the door bell. John squeezed Sherlock's hand tightly. He rang it once, and the slowly the door creaked open.

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**Don't worry, I felt evil, so the big dinner is going to happen in th next chapter! Keep reading!**


	10. The Goddess of Wisdom aka Sherlock's Mum

**I'm so sorry, that I've taken so long to update this, I've been very busy! Happy New Year to everyone, I hope you all have a great one, everyone write lots of amazing fics this year, I wish great success to you all! This should be a great year for updating, I'm going try writing for different categories, so expect some Merlin, Vampire Diaires, Harry Potter and True Blood! And lots of Sherlock! (Hopefully!) Happy New Year!**

**Also, I did some research, and after a little poke in a review, some more research. Athena was the Greek Goddess of wisdom (blame the wiki page if that is wrong) and she was also a goddess of other things, which I will take the liberty to put down.**

**' Athena, Greek goddess of wisdom, of household arts and crafts, of spinning and weaving, of textiles. Inventor of the flute, the plough and the ox-yoke, the horse bridle and the chariot. Athena, goddess of war, guardian of Athens, the city named for her; defender of heroes, champion of justice and civil law.' Wiki**

**So if any of you have any complaints, I will die knowing that the ever faithful internet was wrong!**

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All the tension that had built up inside John over the past few days dissipated at the sight of what he presumed was the formidable 'Mummy'. Standing in front of him was an ageing, but very beautiful woman. A silky mane of black hair, streaked with grey hung down her straight, proud back, and green, piercing eyes looked into his, reminding him suddenly of Sherlock.

"Ah, Sherlock, John. Please, come in." She gestured them inside, opening the wooden door wider. After a quick glance at Sherlock, John hesitantly took a step inside. He barely had a chance to appreciate his grand surroundings before his hand was taken in a vice like grip which he presumed was a hand shake. He looked up to the smiling face of Sherlock's mother.

"Hello John. I'm Sherlock's mother, Athena Holmes. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, I've heard so much about you from Mycroft. You've been a wonderfully calming influence on my Sherlock. He was always so reckless."

"I am here Mother." Sherlock grumbled. Athena gave him a withering look.

"The goddess of wisdom." John muttered.

"Well, I wouldn't describe myself like that exactly, but it is certainly my name sake." Athene smiled, and it dazzled John momentarily. Sherlock was so like his mother.

"I would say Grandma had a certain amount of fore sight when she named you, Mummy," John recognized Mycroft's familiar as he entered into the hall way from one of the many rooms.

"I'm sure she did Mycroft. Now come here Sherlock, it's been such a long time since I've had a hug from my boy. You've grown so much."

Sherlock sent John a help me look, but John just smiled, chuckling. He should have brought his camera, Lestrade would have loved him. Sherlock rolled his eyes as his mother's strong arms wrapped around his now seemingly frail frame, but he did pat her uncomfortably on the back, sending evils at John. John was now rather beginning to enjoy himself. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.

Before he knew it Athena had offered him her arm, and he took it willingly, Sherlock left to follow with Mycroft.

"Now, John, I'm sure you've heard all about me, you must tell me something about yourself. How is Sherlock behaving these days? He doesn't visit very often. I do miss him so."

In truth John had heard nothing at all about Athena, but didn't say anything. So he started to chat amicably about some of the recent cases he'd been on with Sherlock, Sherlock's rather annoying habit of leaving body parts in the fridge, the violin and his moods. Athena stayed silent all the while, chuckling often, occasionally adding a comment, like 'that sounds like my boy' or 'typical Sherlock'. John was quite happy to keep the topic on Sherlock, he didn't want to mention their new found relationship, although he was sure she definitely knew. How could she not? She was after all, Sherlock's mother.

The group entered into a large, airy dining room, which was filled with the soft glow of mellow candle light. A small, but elegant table was laid out, creaking under the weight of the silverware that adorned it. Sherlock was sat next to John, opposite Mycroft, and John was faced with the view of Athena's rather beautiful face.

"So, John, would you like to entertain us with the story of how you and Sherlock met?"Athena leant forward.

"We met through a mutual acquaintance mother." Sherlock stated.

"Yes, but when true lovers meet, it's almost so much exciting."Athena smiled. John choked on his wine. Wow. True love already. People moved quickly.

"When I and Sherlock met, I shot a serial killer to save his life. Sherlock was the next on his list." John sent a look at Sherlock. He didn't mention the fact that Sherlock had practically volunteered for his own death.

Athena beamed, laughing. "Didn't I tell you Sherlock? Things are always more interesting than they seem."

"I would know." Sherlock sent a piercing look at John which made him shiver.

"And what about the first time you met Mycroft then?" Athena's grin grew wider.

"He kidnapped me, took me to an abandoned warehouse, and tried to bribe me into spying on Sherlock."

Athena burst into a fit of giggles. "That's my Mycroft all over." Mycroft flushed pink. John chuckled. This really would be a night to remember. He decided he did like Athena.

After some more prompting from Athena, he started to talk about some of his more exciting experiences in Afghanistan, before his injury, he told them things he'd never told anyone, not that they were particularly embarrassing, but he'd never had a proper audience before. They seemed happy to sit and listen, and Sherlock glowed with pride from the corner of John's eye, although he would never admit this moment of supposed weakness later. Before he knew it the first course had arrived - duck egg and fois gras. It was delicious. Time passed quickly after that, blending into good food, conversation and Sherlock's hand in his. Second course came around in no time – sea bass and sails. Well, the snails were certainly an experience. Sherlock looked slightly tipsy, sending the occasional bread crumb flicking in Mycroft's direction, which Mycroft all too obliging sent flying back in his direction. Athena merely tutted at their childish antics, she was obviously used to them. As she talked more, John realised how much she was a combination of Sherlock and Mycroft, amiable, but sharp and witty. John liked her a lot. And she didn't bring up his relationship with Sherlock, which was just fine with him.

By the end of the evening, he had relaxed back into his seat, smiling at Sherlock, who was grinning right back. Mycroft looked more laid back than John had ever seen him, face glowing red from the many glasses of wine, patting his full belly, almost smiling, still sparring with Sherlock. Athena looked just like John would imagine a queen, sitting regally on her throne, smiling. This would be on a list of his evenings to remember. As the last of his sorbet slipped down his throat, he stood up with Sherlock. He looked across at the antique father clock in the corner. He was surprised; five hours had passed in the blink of an eye. Time really did pass when you were having fun. To his great surprised he received a warm, but tight hug from Athena, and the usual hand shake from a slightly tipsy Mycroft. He walked out the door he had once been so apprehensive about, holding Sherlock's hand, which had never left his the entire evening. Overall, a wonderful evening, he thought.

"Now take care of my Sherlock, John. You know how much he means to me. I wouldn't be very happy if he got hurt." And once again John was reminded of the cold, steel side to the formidable woman. He certainly would be keeping a closer eye on Sherlock now, if he valued his life.

As the door closed behind them, Sherlock turned to John. "Did you have a good time then?"

"Yeah, it was great. Athena seems an amazing person."

"Well, she is my mother after all." Sherlock grinned.

"Did you have a good time then Sherlock?"

"Surprisingly, yes. I'd forgotten how much fun food fights with Mycroft are."

John couldn't help but smile. Sherlock just had to meet his parents. Now that would be interesting.


	11. 5 Minutes Peace is Highly Unlikely

**Hello reader! I feel so ashamed with myself because this story has been on the back burner for over a month now, but I hit myself on a wall of laziness, lack of inspiration and writer's block. There can be no excuses obviously, but the apology has been made. So this is just a filler that came to me just as I was about to write the chapter when Sherlock meets John's mum, but I couldn't help but put this in! I will try and be more regular with my updates, but no promises! Please R&R and enjoy!**

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John let himself relax as he picked up the steaming mug of tea. With milk, for once. He sighed as he relaxed his aching shoulder into the comfy armchair which he had claimed as his own. He was savouring a rare moment's peace whilst Sherlock was out on another case god knows where.

In the time Sherlock had been gone, John had managed to tidy the flat, clear Sherlock's experiments, sterilise the fridge and remove all the fingers that had been caught in the dishwasher fan. In truth, John missed Sherlock. The work was merely filling the excruciating amount of ticking time it took for the detective to return home. _His_ detective, he reminded himself. The euphoria of his feelings for Sherlock still hit him like a rush of adrenalin every time he thought of them, and probably always would. Sherlock _loved_ him. The mere thought sent a shiver down his spine.

As he lifted the mug to his lips, the door burst open behind him. John jumped half way out of his seat in surprise, tea sloshing all over his only clean pair of jeans. _This better be important..._

"John!" A familiar voice cried. _Sherlock. _When he was just about to relax...

"Yes Sherlock..." John was abruptly cut off as Sherlock darted across the room, snatched the mug of tea out of his hands and slammed it down on the battered coffee table. John was about to protest angrily when Sherlock grabbed him around the arms and hoisted John out of the chair, and proceeded to grab him round the waist from behind and squeeze the living daylights out of him.

"Sherlock. What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing!" John managed to gasp between breaths. If Sherlock didn't stop soon, he was going to have the pleasure of meeting his breakfast for the second time that morning.

"Did you drink that cup of tea?" Sherlock yelled in his ear.

"What the...?"

"Did you drink that cup of tea?"

"Well thanks to you, I didn't get a chance!"

Sherlock stopped abruptly, and John let out a sigh of relief. "What the hell was that for Sherlock?"

"I thought you drank the tea." Was all Sherlock said.

"So why was it necessary to half squeeze me to death then?"

"Poison at the bottom of the mug."

"What kind of poison exactly?"

"Oh I don't remember, probably cyanide..." Sherlock dismissed it with a wave of his hand. John was not impressed.

"Cyanide at the bottom of my mug? Cyanide Sherlock! I could have _died_!"

"Well you didn't did you?" Sherlock stalked off to the kitchen, leaning over his experiments.

John sighed, looking down at the mug. The man really was impossible sometimes, but beneath his sociopath facade, he really did care.

Anyway, how had he known the exact moment at when to come in?

"You always drink your tea at 9am prompt every morning, John."

John chuckled, the novelty of the trick fading, but never truly wearing off. Perhaps the man really could read minds.


End file.
